


Balance of Power

by shimotsuki



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-22
Updated: 2009-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimotsuki/pseuds/shimotsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single decision by Ser dy Ferrej once changed the course of Cazaril's life. Now Cazaril must ask an even greater favor of the only man who knows just how close he came to having nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance of Power

_Cardegoss, on the evening of Cazaril's return from Taryoon_

Torches cast unsteady shadows along the courtyard walls. The air was chilly and clear, a welcome counterpoint to rich food and strong wine.

The silence was refreshing, too. Laughter and voices still drifted faintly from the banquet hall, and there was an occasional cough or rustle of silk from a guard or a lady in waiting somewhere in the shadows. But now that Cazaril was away from the press of well-wishers (and sycophants), he could finally hear himself think.

The first thought he had was how nice it was to feel Betriz's warm, strong hand on his arm, to smell the scent of her hair as she walked beside him through the moonlit garden. To smile down into her merry brown eyes and see her own smile widen in response.

The second thing that occurred to him, however, was not such a pleasant thought. He couldn't help stiffening a little in dismay.

Betriz noticed, of course. "Are you feeling all right? There's a bench—we could sit for a while."

"No, no. I'm fine." And he was, despite—or possibly because of—the long days of slow, careful riding that must have tried Palli's patience. "I've just realized that I must write to your father."

She raised an eyebrow. "What for? You can't ask him for my hand, you know. The royina of all Chalion has already given _yours_ to _me!_"

Cazaril's answering smile was wry. "That is so, but I imagine your father would appreciate some sort of gesture, all the same." Ser dy Ferrej struck him as the sort of man who liked things to be traditional. Predictable.

Betriz searched his face and began to chuckle. "Caz, you're actually _nervous!_ There's no need to be—Papa likes you. He has from the start. He wouldn't have lent you his second-best sword if he didn't."

"He likes me well enough, for myself," Cazaril allowed. "But I'm not sure a landless rogue who writes bad poetry is really what your father had in mind for _your_ future. He is a castle warder, after all."

Betriz shook her head, her eyes sparkling. "I really don't think he could ask for anything more respectable than you, _my lord Chancellor._"

With his free hand, Cazaril touched the heavy gold chain of office that Iselle and Bergon had presented to him only a few hours before. He sighed.

Betriz's words were not untrue.

But the problem was, she didn't know the _whole_ of the truth.

She had never even noticed him cowering on that bench in the castle courtyard in Valenda, only just a year ago—hadn't seen how miserably he twisted his fingers as he waited for the man who held Cazaril's fate in his hands as surely as he wore the keys to the Provincara's castle at his belt.

Cazaril closed his eyes.

_Respectable,_ Betriz had called him just now.

When in truth, if not for a single act of charity on the good warder's part, the present chancellor of Chalion would most likely have been scraping by as a half-crippled water-carrier in the Provincara's kitchen.

And it was dy Ferrej who would always know, better than anyone, how terribly, terribly differently things could have turned out for him. Dy Ferrej—the very man whose daughter Cazaril now had the temerity to pledge to wed.

The news of their betrothal might not be received so very well in Valenda.

Still, one of life's rare certainties was the fact that unpleasant tasks rarely became less so for being postponed.

"I must write to your father," he said again, before stooping to taste the sweetness of Betriz's kiss. "Tomorrow, first thing."

. * . * .

  
_Valenda, three days later_

The clatter of swift hooves and the cry of "Hallo, Castle Valenda!" brought dy Ferrej himself to the gate at once. It was unexpected for the household to receive a message by courier just now, with the Provincara and even the dowager royina gone to court for the coronation.

He was even more surprised when the letter turned out to be for him.

Dy Ferrej blinked once at the bright red wax of the chancellery seal, wondering for the space of a heartbeat what Martou dy Jironal could possibly want with a mere castle warder.

But of course, dy Jironal was dead.

Then he saw the second seal, the one stamped in blue with the image of a crow on the three letters CAZ. And he remembered what he'd heard the previous day, from a company of passing soldiers, about just who it was that Iselle had appointed as her new chancellor.

_Ah._ Dy Ferrej nodded briskly in approval. That was an excellent choice on the young royina's part. Cazaril was both loyal and shrewd—exactly what the chancellorship needed.

Once the courier and his tired horse had been directed to the stables, dy Ferrej broke the seals and opened the letter.

A grin spread across his face as he read.

"Well," he breathed, when he reached the end.

One of the castle hounds, following at his feet, cocked her head at him.

"My Betriz is going to marry Lord dy Cazaril!" Dy Ferrej needed an audience for his triumph, and the dog would have to do.

No need to fear, now, that his girl would lose her head and run off with an unsuitable boy, or that she would be forced into some sort of unsavory alliance for political reasons. Honest Cazaril could certainly be trusted to give Betriz a good home.

_Not to mention_— Dy Ferrej's grin grew a little wider as he made his way toward his chambers to put the letter safely away. It was something, for the daughter of a castle warder to be the wife of the chancellor of Chalion. Betriz had done _very_ well.

Then he stopped short.

His gaze had fallen on one of the benches in the courtyard, where the soft golden light from the setting sun was pooling. Just as it had done a year ago.

Dy Ferrej could almost see the man who had huddled there, still stiff from his half-healed wounds and flinching at sudden movements—the unknown and decidedly odd-looking traveler who had _walked_ from Ibra to Valenda to beg an audience with the Provincara.

He hadn't thought about that night in months. The image of Cazaril in his mind now was always that of the wry witty tutor, who had taught Iselle and Betriz so competently and managed to make even stubborn Teidez think a little bit.

But now dy Ferrej remembered how torn he had felt, between his duty to protect the Provincara from those who might impose on her or even threaten her, and his curiosity about the man who dressed like a scholar or a lord but wore no sword at all.

The enormity of what that night had meant hit him squarely for the first time.

Suppose he hadn't taken the stranger's request to the Provincara. Suppose he had told the man to go away, and let a guard usher him out through the castle gates without a second glance.

Never mind Betriz and her happy prospects for marriage—where would _Chalion_ be now without Cazaril at court to look out for Iselle?

The letter crinkled in his hand.

With Teidez and Orico dead, Ias's last heir would still have become royina. But there would have been no one to keep Martou dy Jironal from using her to solidify his stranglehold over the royacy. No one to negotiate like the Bastard himself with the Fox of Ibra—no one to bring Royse Bergon back over the mountains for Iselle to marry, which was all that had allowed her to keep control of her own throne, let alone the future unification of Chalion and Ibra.

If dy Ferrej had made the wrong choice that night last year, things might have turned out so terribly, terribly differently.

He shuddered and signed himself hastily. "Thank the gods for their guidance," he whispered.

Then he folded his letter again and smoothed his finger over the reassuring red wax of the chancellery seal.

  
_. * fin * ._   



End file.
